The Accursed Moor

And so … They both ran, legs pumping, lungs screaming, neither daring to look back, a terrible chilled blackness sweeping over them, seizing their minds in its crushing grip, making conscious thought an impossibility. Blind to reason, they sprinted in panic as the night, not yet full, pressed in around them. What should have been a comforting blanket at the end of this mild, mid-summer’s day came to them like a freezing fog, unwanted, concealing their surroundings, making it malicious and terrifying. Whatever it was that hunted them, they needed to see it. For they could not hear it. Or smell it. But it was coming, nevertheless. Relentless. Less than an hour ago they first grew aware of it, its breath coming out of the lush grass as it stalked them. Moving ever nearer, its intentions clear, the steady tramp of its feet through the undergrowth so loud. It stopped within striking distance and silence, like the grave, settled over everything, even the birds, whose songs ceased as if commanded. “What is it?” she’d asked, holding her breath, imagination raging, old stories and legends pushing aside all her common sense. She looked despairingly at her partner whose face, drained of all colour, gazed at her in confusion and fear. The single snap of a fallen branch, sounding like a gunshot, so close. Something, a shadowy shape lurched around the periphery of their vision, and circled them. “Run!” He shouted, and they did, breaking into a run like they had never run before. Scrambling across the uneven ground, vaulting over smooth, flat, boulders, tramping through gorse, the woman led the way. Fitter, all those years of pounding the local streets in her designer trainers and skin-tight lycra pants were paying off. Behind him, feeling the pace, her partner forced himself on, but unlike her the only exercise he ever did was lifting his beer glass to his lips. Now, it was all coming home. And whatever it was that hunted them was gaining, all the time gaining. She reached a small rise and threw herself behind a craggy outcrop, flattening herself against the smoothness of its surface. Sucking in her breath, heart hammering against her chest, she battled to calm herself. Fear, more draining than any weekly session on the treadmill, engulfed her. Where was Jeff, her partner? Raising her head over the rim, she squinted into the swiftly enveloping night. She spotted him, a forlorn figure, bent double, wheezing in air. She could just about make him out and she knew he was near to defeat. “Jeff,” she hissed. ‘Jeff, for God’s sake come on!” “I can’t, Fran,’ he said, voice not much more than a whimper, “I can’t make it.” “Yes, you can,” she said, emphasising every word. She went to stand up. Something moved behind her and she froze. Damn it, it had circled them, cut off their line of retreat. Fumbling inside her jacket pocket, her hand curled around the cold stubbiness of her Swiss-army knife. It was all she had, but she’d make a damned good show of defending herself. She whirled around, trembling fingers prising open the short knife. Something flashed through the night, something flat and large. It smacked into the side of her head, opening her flesh, the blood leaking hot and thick. A tiny groan escaped from her throat but before she could understand what was happening, the strength went out of her body and she knew nothing more. Jeff, lifting his head, knew it had over-taken them, knew it was there, knew the end was close now. He heard the solid thump of Fran’s body hitting the ground and the hopelessness caused him to crumple to his knees, tiny animal-like sounds coming from his mouth. How could such a thing happen, out here, on a lonely stretch of moorland? How was it possible. It emerged out of the darkness, so big in the night. Impossibly big. Confused, Jeff watched, helpless, as it moved towards him. “Please,” he jabbered, hands coming up in supplication, not caring if it understood or not, crying out his plea to the universe, to God, anything or anyone. “Please, don’t hurt me!” Ignoring his pleas, the shape loomed closer. Petrified, unable to move, Jeff screamed, and the hunter struck again. And again. Not stopping until all that remained of Jeff’s head was a shapeless, b****y mess. Sated, the hunter threw back its head and howled, a preternatural sound, echoing across the vastness of the moor. Without another glance, it left the scene and disappeared into the enfolding gloom to finish what it had started so many nights before.